


Seductive Seasoning

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domesticity, Established Relationship, M/M, foodplay as foreplay, rated M for innuendos, set in 1913
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25489249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: Sussex idyll: Holmes makes a pizza which delights Watson in more ways than one.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 47
Collections: Victorian Holmes Prompt Box





	Seductive Seasoning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nomin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomin/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Nomin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomin/pseuds/Nomin) in the [Victorian221bPromptBox](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Victorian221bPromptBox) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Inspired by misreading the term "deductive reasoning":
> 
> Once again I read "seductive seasoning", though if Holmes ever cooked a meal and Watson had the chance to observe such an event that'd be the way he would describe Holmes holding the pepper grinder.
> 
> Also, for July Writing Prompts on Watson's Woes community: JWP#25 Food, Glorious Food: Have food (or its absence) figure in some way today.

I was whiling away the time in the sitting-room, scribbling in my notebook and looking out of the window at the snow-laden Sussex hills. This year we had been blessed with a white Christmas, and it seemed that the magic would last until well after the New Year. The season was magical indeed: Holmes had come from America for a fortnight, having arranged a credible legend for his alter ego. The ‘Altamont’ character was lying low somewhere in the forests of Minnesota where no one could reach him. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, in the meantime, was ensuring that our neighbours saw him frequently in the village so that they could later attest his presence in Sussex to any curious inquirers. 

Holmes has always been a late riser, but his American mission proved very taxing both on his mind and body, so these days he usually slept until noon. Upon hearing his steps descending the stairs, I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and smiled to myself. Yes, you could set time by his emergence from the bedroom.

“Good morning,” he said, North-American tones vaguely audible in his speech. 

True to his cat-like love of cleanliness, he was groomed impeccably and fully dressed. His smooth, freshly shaven cheek pressed against mine as he leaned to kiss me. The light scent of his  _ eau de Cologne _ wafted over me, making my heart clench with yearning. We’ve been together a handful of times throughout the year, and parting again was imminent.

“I’m so glad you got rid of that horrible goatee,” I said with a chuckle, running my fingers along his chin.

“I’ll have to glue it on when the vacation is over. But enough talking about work,” he replied airily. “Let’s go and ransack the pantry.”

“Oh God,” I muttered and clapped myself on the forehead. “I completely forgot. There’s coffee, ham and toast for breakfast, but nothing more substantial. I should have cooked something instead of sitting around.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, my dear. Ham and toast will do. You know my simple tastes.”

“Perhaps we could drive to the pub later?”

“It shall depend on what we have in stock,” Holmes remarked enigmatically.

I followed him to the kitchen where he examined the pantry as thoroughly as if it were a crime scene. His expression was most satisfied when he finished.

“Excellent,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “All ingredients are in place. I shall remind you of my merits as a housekeeper.”

He removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and donned an apron with a theatrical flourish. Then he began to carry foodstuffs from the pantry to the kitchen table: the flour jar, a bottle of olive oil, and tins of salt and baking powder.

“How good of you to have purchased canned tomato sauce, John. And here’s the ham which will be consumed in a different way than was first intended. Hmm, we have no mozzarella, but soft cheddar will serve nicely as its substitute. Pitted olives will join in, and dried basil is very welcome to the company.”

Soon our kitchen table resembled Holmes's chemistry bench, so neatly and in such an orderly manner everything was arranged. I settled myself down on the chair by the table, full of anticipation. Holmes could turn anything into a performance, even cooking.

He made a spectacular sight of himself when he bent over to light up the stove. I admired his pert buttocks to my heart’s content while he was building a fire. Knowing how appreciative I was, he took his time. It had always excited him to be the centre of my attention, ever since our first meeting at Bart’s. Who could have thought that it was now decades ago. At last, having set ablaze not only the firewood but the blood in my veins too, Holmes returned to the table.

With the precision of a chemist that he was, Holmes measured the ingredients for the dough and mixed them in a large bowl. His thin, long fingers kneaded the pliant substance just as they had my body the other night. White flour accented the paleness of his skin, repetitive movements of his hands mesmerising me. When the dough became solid enough, Holmes spread some flour over the table with a graceful sweep of his hand. He laid out the dough in front of him and gave it several affectionate slaps the way he often favoured my posterior. I cursed inwardly. His devious plan worked: all my thoughts were turning into the same direction. But I firmly decided not to be seduced until the meal was ready.

As if answering my thoughts and challenging my resolve, Holmes dipped his palm into the flour. His other hand reached for the rolling pin, and then his flour-covered fingers wrapped around the wooden shaft. He ran his hand up and down the length of the rolling pin, gazing into my eyes defiantly. I could feel heat rushing to my face and to my nether regions. Holmes proceeded to roll out the dough, a complacent grin playing on his lips.

The flattened dough was placed into a round iron pan, and then the topping was made in a truly aesthetic fashion. Holmes smeared the tomato sauce in broad strokes upon the flatbread, like scarlet paint across the canvas. He put slices of ham and cheese in artistic disarray, decorated his masterpiece with olive rings here and there, and added a finishing touch—a pinch of dried basil sprinkled on top of it all. The stove was heated perfectly by that time. Holmes glanced at me, arching his eyebrow in a silent question. I nodded my wholehearted approval. 

While the pizza was baking, we cleared the table and brewed fresh tea. In about fifteen minutes a mouth-watering smell spread across the kitchen. Soon we were enjoying the crispy crust and the juicy topping. Even something as crude as eating with one’s hands was the height of elegance when it came to Sherlock Holmes. 

“How is it?” he asked, having licked off a bit of sauce from the tip of his forefinger.

“It’s delicious, Sherlock. I haven’t had anything like it since our last visit to an Italian restaurant a few years ago,” I replied, and he flushed up with pleasure at my earnest praise.

“I see that this particular dish has succeeded in kindling your appetite.”

“Oh yes, in more ways than one.”

“We’ll satisfy that kind of hunger too, rest assured.”

**Author's Note:**

> I went with a no yeast recipe as it had to be quick, no time for proofing, etc. Baking powder did exist by the 1910s, had to look it up. And I don’t know about you, but I want a pizza now :)


End file.
